As you may have gathered by this point, I have a weakness for musicians… particularly if they are bearded and out of control. So when a tall, hairy, lumberjack-looking guitar player asked me out for drinks on OKCupid, I immediately agreed. He made a point of mentioning how busy he was with his band on his profile, so I figured he had to be at least somewhat talented.
We planned to meet at a bar in South Williamsburg called Burnside at a reasonable hour one evening late last spring. I arrived first (as usual) and eyed the cheese curds being consumed next to me with a deep longing and regret. I reminded myself that a first date with a guitarist is neither the time nor place for an emotional cheese transaction, and thus abstained. A few minutes later, a pair of cowboy boots saddled up next to me. They were attached to a pair of do-able jeans and a tank top belonging to “John,” my date. I repeat: a tank top. As you may have also noted, I have had a wide variety of experiences with urban cowboys (see: this guy and this guy) but never had I seen such a long and pointy toe– which seemed to get longer and longer as the night went on. And even the boldest of urban cowboys usually doesn’t pair a pointy-toed boot with a tank top. We ordered drinks and began to chat. He was cute, but obviously shy and a little… off. Music was his life and dating was hard for him since he had recently been a roadie on tour with a band and was now starting a new band with one of the members. ”Maybe you’ve heard of them? They’re kind of big,” he said with a hint of haughtiness, “Remember the song ‘Stacy’s Mom’?”
Just stop right there and don’t go any further.
I responded with a look that I hope came off more aroused than aghast and frantically ordered another round, which he did not attempt to pay for. As the clock struck eleven, I said I should probably be heading home soon and he agreed, yawning and stretching his arms to the heavens– the international “I’m Tired” gesture. It was then that I saw it. Or rather, didn’t see it. Where most adult men have armpit hair… there was not a hair to be found! His pits were as smooth as a baby’s bottom, as they say. I casually examined his other parts and ascertained that he was not wearing a wig, and had hair both on his arms and chest. I did not care to carry out this research any further, so John and I said our goodbyes.
A few months later, I was eating more tacos than is socially acceptable at a restaurant in Greenpoint… when who do you think walks in and sits down at the bar next to me– but John. Neither of us had contacted the other after our awkward date and it was clear that we didn’t want to be noticed by the other during our lunch that day. We never made eye contact, but every time he looked down to send a text, I shot glances at his pits to try and see if anything had sprouted during the past few months. Unfortunately, he was wearing a shirt with sleeves this time and never lifted his arms up. He finished his margarita and left the building as I took a moment to come to terms with the fact that I would never know what was up with that dude’s armpits.
Maybe he was a swimmer? Perhaps a woman? Or maybe Stacy’s mom just likes them to look really young.
Whatever. Keep on rocking, man.